Wanted for Crimes Against Humanity
by mediaboy
Summary: When he was 16, he made a deal. His service, their freedom. Now, years later, Alex Rider finds out that the intelligence services have not followed through on their promise.
1. Chapter 1

Alex was sixteen when he made the ultimatum, "I'll do it, but on my terms."

MI6 didn't give much thought to what those terms meant until nearly eight years later, when Alex Rider slammed the door to Operations Control open.

"Everyone out."

The operatives filed out perhaps a little more quickly than was polite. Senior Operative Alex Rider was known for his patience, his empathy, his loyalty. But also for his unfailingly perfect scores on the shooting range, and his tendency to drop into agency hand-to-hand combat to teach their trainers some new dirty tricks he'd picked at an ever-frustratingly vague "somewhere else".

The room was empty, apart from Tulip Jones, her personal assistant, and Derek Smithers. "Agent Rider. It's good to see you."

"Did you know?"

Tulip blinked. Twice. "Did I know what?"

The manila folder was carelessly thrown onto the main operations desk at the centre of the large room that oversaw covert operations under the direction of Tulip Jones. Photographs spilled out. Alan Blunt meeting with a teenager. A still frame from a CCTV camera showing them cracking open a safe. The same teenager a few weeks later, in a hospital bed. "This is Lawrence. He broke three bones, was shot twice and one of his kidneys had to be removed."

"Oh." Alex looked positively murderous, so it was perhaps understandable that Tulip didn't really have much to say, other than to helplessly offer a few more details, "Alan left us about three months ago. They gave him a new department, top secret. We don't know where he is." She glanced down at the damning images, "Nor what he was doing. You know me better than that Alex."

"He broke the rules. No children. No teenagers. Not a single one anywhere in the intelligence community." Alex jabbed his finger down on the photo of Blunt. There was an awkward silence, punctuated only by the very angry breathing of a very angry operative. "I'll give you two weeks to find him and shut him down. If you can't, or won't, I'll deal with it myself."

Tulip flinched as the door slammed behind Hurricane Rider on his way out to blow some steam off before collapsing into her nearby chair. "Any chance we can find Alan before Alex does?"

Smithers grimaced, and shook his head, "The best we could do would be put out a bulletin."

"And what would that say?" Tulip shook her head ruefully, "Wanted for Crimes Against Common Decency? Come on Derek, you know better than that."

Picking up the folder, Smithers opened it and looked inside for a minute before showing her another photo. Lawrence, tied down to a chair, three masked figures around him. 'Interrogation,' her brain filled in.

"Well," he said, "At least it wouldn't be inaccurate. Interpol hates it when we send them bullshit."

Alan Blunt was found dead in a safehouse in Edinburgh two weeks and a day later. Suicide, said the autopsy. Murder, said the internal report. No one had ever accused Rider of being subtle, and the "CHILDREN DON'T BELONG" scrawled in paint next to the body was nothing if not blatant.

The second time was more civilized. Let it never be said that MI6 didn't learn lessons quickly when pragmatism suggested that they should.

"Agent Rider, we need you to come in. We've got a situation that requires your… personal attention."

No one knew quite how it had slipped through the net. An entire compound, an entire school even, of MI5 operatives, all under the age of 18. They went through basic training, they learnt languages, they learnt self-defence. But, more importantly to Alex, they went on operations. Often being used as part of an elaborate cover story, always on the fringe of danger. Just close enough for it to be potentially lethal, just far enough for them to have lucked out on losing too many operatives. Six deaths in eighty years.

Senior Operative Alex Rider was in their head office that afternoon, ceramic gun in a concealed holster beneath his jacket slipping through the metal detectors.

"We don't understand the concerns of MI6," Meryl Spencer said bluntly, "No one suspects a child."

"SCORPIA disagrees." Alex sighed, "We had to extract four of your "agents" from a situation in Berlin last night. Two of them are in hospital, and we only expect one of them to make it."

"We've only ever had six deaths!"

"And now it's going to be seven. And that's seven too many."

"The work we do is essential." Meryl's hand slammed onto the table, "You have no right to shut us down."

"At 14, I was hired by MI6 to prevent a crazy man from killing every child in the country. At 15, I was recruited by SCORPIA to assassinate the Deputy Head of Operations at MI6. I escaped their clutches and agreed to work for MI6 on the condition that no children would again be used in intelligence work anywhere." Alex gestured out of the window towards the compound, "I don't disagree that what you're doing here is more ethical than anything else I've found so far, but let me put it like this: what would the prime minister say if this was leaked to the press?"

"We have nearly two hundred agents!" Meryl pushed themselves up out of their chair and paced the room, "We can't just shut down overnight. What about the operations they're on?"

"You don't have two hundred agents, you have two hundred children." Alex adjusted the cold weight of his gun into a more comfortable position, "I suggest you pass over all operations to MI5 Operations immediately and then finish their education."

Meryl collapsed, rubbing their forehead. "It's going to be problematic."

Alex paused on his way out, "If you feel any of the operations are too sensitive to be disturbed, feel free to pass them along to MI6. I'll deal with them immediately and personally. As a favour."

It went without saying that he meant a favour to the children in the operations, not to MI5.

Two weeks and a day later, the entire executive board of the Hello Earth foundation was found hogtied to a lamp-post outside MI5 headquarters with an envelope containing enough evidence to condemn them to a long and difficult time in jail. Courtesy of Agent Rider, a few of the braver ones suggested, before being told to shut up and get on with their jobs.

The next few years were quieter. A few attempts from a few agencies rapidly shut down by an interpol bulletin, a manhunt, and the deadly grace of Orion stalking the shadows enough of a threat to discourage anyone that might even think about bringing teenagers or children into the back alley of espionage.

It was rather surprising, then, that the third situation that Senior Operative Alex Rider found himself tangled into started with an interpol bulletin from an unknown source.

"They got hacked, and all they did was put up this bulletin." Smithers passed it over the table. "Urusov Yanovich: Wanted for Crimes Against Common Decency."

Alex picked up the file and flicked through it, "He looks fairly clean. Drugs, guns, the usual. Are we sure there's anything in this - who were the hackers?"

"That's where it gets interesting." Smithers pulled a second folder out from his desk and passed it over. "He's known as Dendroaspis. Common associates are.."

"He's SCORPIA." Alex cut him off. "I met him once. Nice fellow, but a bit off. Liked poisons a bit too much."

"They could be trying to get you to target him for them." Smithers shrugged, "We certainly have found anything on it."

"Tell Tulip I'm taking vacation." Alex scooped up both folders. "I'll have a look into it. I haven't been to Moscow since that business with Sarov."

The headlines two weeks and a day later said it all: "Respected businessman found dead at home - police seeking no witnesses."

It was in the same basement room that Tulip, Smithers and Alex met again.

"SCORPIA?"

"He left. Or was fired." Alex frowned, "He was using children to run drugs, even some hits. I finished what he started, left the kids in the care of their government."

"In Russia?" Smithers pulled a face, "I'm not sure you did them any favours."

"Kidnapping them across international borders isn't exactly a great idea." Alex paced the room, "But that isn't the point. I couldn't find any source for the information. It just came out of nowhere. Someone used me to clean up their mess."

"You could have said no." Tulip was leaning against the desk, "Left them to it and watched to see who came next."

"It's likely this was a test," Smithers agreed, "They wanted to know what you'd do."

"And now they know." Alex nodded. "I'll clean it up and get the kids out."

Smithers phone buzzed. He frowned as his eyes scanned down the message. "And now they're going to ask you to do it again, whoever they were. I hope you know what you're doing Agent Rider."

"Who is it?"

"Joe Byrne, CIA." Tulip flinched as Smithers continued, "They've sent supporting evidence direct to the servers we use for your Orion identity. Whoever they are, they're _very_ well informed. We've kept the server beyond top secret."

Alex took the phone from him and flicked through the first few files. "I'll need to look into this. Maybe give Joe a ring too." He tossed the phone back. "At least they've been polite enough to do the groundwork."

Tulip raised her hand to stop him as he turned for the door, "Alex, I'm afraid I've got to ask what you're going to do."

"I'm going to do what you should have been doing all along." Alex glared over his shoulder, freezing something inside her. "No children. Not then, not now, not ever."

The door slammed behind him.

"Derek, he can't just… Think of the implications. He'd be hunted by every intelligence agency in the world for the rest of his life."

"I'm not sure anyone's told him." Smithers rubbed his brow. "And I'm not sure he'd care if anyone did."

"Is he going to…" Tulip collapsed into her chair, "Joe's the director of the fucking CIA. He can't just stroll into Washington DC with a rifle and snipe him through a window."

"Why not?"

"Shit."

Alex Rider didn't leave the country the following day, but Alex Gardiner did. A registered US citizen, it was much easier for this alias to enter the destination country. The intel drop had been kind enough to identify a skyscraper with a suitable view down a long road into the office of one Joe Byrne, Director of the CIA, and suggested a time when he might just be available for a talk.

Mr Byrne had been served up on a silver platter, and looking down his scope, Alex knew that the man didn't even know it yet.

He pulled out a phone and dialled a number that had been burned into his mind many years ago.

"Hey Joe."

"Who is this?"

"You knew me as Alex, but I'm going by Orion in the field now. You've probably heard of me." He could see Joe stiffen in the chair. "Oh no, don't move Joe. Keep those feet planted on the floor and your hands above the desk, else I might get nervous. That wouldn't be good. My finger might slip."

"You're bluffing."

"Do you want me to shoot your secretary to prove it to you?" Alex had scoped the building thoroughly. "He's getting your coffee at the moment, but I did enjoy his t-shirt. Casual Fridays on a Thursday? Brave choices."

"What do you want?" Joe had frozen completely still in his chair. "Why are you here?"

"A little bird tells me that you've been a bad boy." Alex took a breath and slowly let it out. "I've heard all about Troy."

"Fuck." Joe leaned back in his chair, a look of resigned defeat covering his face.

"So you tell me Joe." Alex took another controlled breath. "Why am I here?"

"We had our reasons. You showed us it works."

"And I've made it clear that it isn't allowed." He let his finger slide towards the trigger. "How many missions has he been on?"

"Six. All successes."

"And how serious injuries has he suffered? How many missions caused permanent damage?"

The silence was answer enough.

"And then you sent him to Syria. To join the terrorists that you're supposed to be stopping. Because you think a white kid from Chicago with a limp, one eye and some serious psychological issues is going to blend in." Alex snorted, "Don't even try to tell me that was your best option."

"There was no one else, Alex. No one! What were we sup-"

Joe's last phone call was traced to an apartment block nearly a mile away from his office.. Pinned to the wall above the sniper rifle on the floor was an airport schedule with an arrival in Washington circled in red. Troy vanished the moment he stepped off the plane from Syria, with a bemused yet grateful smile.

Alex Gardiner never left the country, but Alex Friend did. Via Singapore, crossroad of the skies, one of the top five busiest international airports in the world.

Tulip was less than pleased. "Where the fuck is Rider?" She paced the operations room, glancing from screen to screen as her support team furiously searched through everything. "He's one man in the middle of a thousand cameras. He can't just vanish. He's supposed to be on our side."

Smithers entered the room, folder in hand, and glanced around. "You've heard then?"

"That Rider has assassinated the head of an allied intelligence service?"

"That he's defected." He offered the folder to her grimly.

Tulip froze, mid-step, before slowly turning to face him. "He did what?" The folder was snatched out of Smither's hands and the contents spread across the table. "Is that..?"

"That's Dr Three. Of SCORPIA. Meeting Orion in Washington, hours before he vanished off our radar."

"Why the hell is he with them?" She collapsed into her chair again, watching as dozens of technicians searched the world. "They killed his guardian, nearly killed him. Twice. I can't imagine what they offered him."

"You said it best. Every intelligence agency in the world is hunting him down." He looked at the snapshot of the footage again, "I guess he found his way out."

The sun beat down on the island compound of Seconda. Alex jumped out of the helicopter, looking around in interest. He could hear gunshots, regular and measured, and the light gleamed off the nearby greenhouses. SCORPIA invested in their operatives, and it showed.

Behind him, Dr Three stepped out of the aircraft also. "I'm glad you came Alex, it pleases me that you're willing to hear us out."

"Safe passage and a conversation." Alex shrugged, elegantly, "We both know that killing me would displease some of your clients."

"You are a graduate of Malagosto. By all accounts, one who has been successful in their career. We have been watching. Rome, Khartoum, Jerusalem. And our favourite, Berlin. That was a masterpiece." He reached out, almost like a fond father, and clapped Alex on the shoulder, "One of our best was there, and was in the process of explaining to the board his reasoning for abandoning what he viewed as an impossible mission when our client contacted us to congratulate us on your success."

"You're actually proud aren't you." Alex snorted, "I haven't worked for you. Ever."

"Alex." Dr Three released him, "You trained with us. Everyone knows it. Better still, you have done credit to our training. Of course we are proud. Even though you ended up on the wrong side of the fence, you have shown the world what a SCORPIA agent is capable of."

They reached a small meeting room in the centre of the campus, and looking around, Alex knew that this was going to be a serious talk. He didn't recognise all of the individuals around the table, but he knew enough to know that he had been privileged with an invitation to one of the few meetings at which every member of the executive board must attend.

"Alex Rider." The current chair, a nondescript gray man whose face Alex had never seen before, had a voice that sounded like someone was pouring ice down your neck. "Thank you for meeting with us."

"We understand you took care of Director Joe Byrne for us."

"Not for you." Alex sat down in the chair on the far side of the table, at the centre of what was essentially a semi-circle. "For Troy."

"The child agent." The Chairman's head tilted, "You have an odd proclivity. We weren't sure about Alan Blunt, but after Moscow we thought we'd found a trend."

"It was the rule." Alex leaned onto the table, letting his eyes meet each and every one of the board members'. "I would work with MI6. I would serve my country. And in return they would make every effort to ensure that no children were used by any intelligence agency, anywhere in the world. Ever."

"They failed." There wasn't a condemnation, just a statement of cold, harsh fact. "We do admire your goal however."

Alex's voice was dry. "I'm sure. Child agents have caused SCORPIA a great deal of problems in the past."

"No, only you. The rest were no issue at all." The chair handed a folder to his assistant, who promptly walked around the room to place it carefully in front of Alex. "We do, however, have a list. SCORPIA has discovered current child operatives from no less than twelve countries. Principally, they seem to be countries you have been loaned to in the past who believe that they will create the next Alex Rider. The next Orion, if you prefer."

Alex flipped through the folder quickly and efficiently, noting names, faces, places, times. The information seemed solid. "Why give me this information? Is there a price?"

"No price for this. We have shared goals here." The Chairman's eyes tightened slightly, the first sign of any emotion. "One of our erstwhile colleagues believed, as you do, that children had no place in this world. We would seek to support his legacy."

"Cossack." His chin tilted defiantly. "Yassen."

"Precisely." Dr Three spoke up for the first time, the arch of his fingers reaching elegantly up to his chin as he reclined in his chair. "And so we will provide this information for free, and make you an offer."

"An offer?"

The Chairman spoke up again. "We will adopt this unspoken rule as an official policy of the SCORPIA organisation. It will be enforced across all of our subsidiaries. We will refuse to work with those who utilise children, and take aggressive action against those who continue to do so after an initial grace period." His gaze settled on the MI6 agent. "In return, we will extend to you an honorary place on this board, support for your... crusade... and a role as an instructor at our training facilities worldwide."

"That seems to be rather generous."

"Allow me to be frank. The world is moving on, it is changing. Our role as consultants and technicians for the morally challenged of the world is moving slowly and inexorably towards extinction. We must change. SCORPIA must change." One of the other board members shifted, but didn't comment. "We are already taking steps to legitimise many of our more palatable dealings, and have begun to gather support from client countries to enjoy the protection of the law for our dealings with them."

"And you want me to be at the forefront of that? Your poster boy?"

"You just assassinated the Director of the CIA. Eventually some news report will pick up on this." The Chairman smiled slightly, "I do not think that telling the wider world you are working with us would be particularly sensible, though perhaps desirable in some circumstances. More important is that amongst those that know and respect you, your presence would affirm that we are serious about moving away from some of our past extreme positions."

"What if were to say no?"

"Then we would offer you a new identity, sufficient money to disappear, and a list of contacts that would continue to feed you any information we find on child operatives. Our unofficial policy would not become a rule, and you would lose the opportunity to truly change the world. SCORPIA can change without Orion, but we would much rather have Alex Rider by our side than lost to the shadows."

"I will need time to consider this." Alex shifted slightly in his chair. "I presume you have prepared a suite for me?"

"You may stay for three days. Seven if you agree to teach a masterclass on instinctive shooting tomorrow."

He stood up. "You understand that I will expect only the best?"

"Yes, we do." The chair stood as well, traversing the oddly quiet room to shake Alex's hand. "We would expect nothing less from someone as capable as Orion."

The sun rose on the island compound to the sound of gunshots. Meditation for the certifiably murderous, Smithers used to say. Orion had been shooting for nearly thirty minutes before his first student arrived. A woman, mid thirties, left-handed. Likely poor at close combat. A thinker, but a dangerous one. Likely poisons or counter-intelligence, possibly a shooter.

"Wait or compete. Your choice."

The student glanced at the scoreboard and winced before quietly settling in at the back of the room. No shooter then. Or just a poor shooter. He reloaded instinctively, and continued shooting down the range.

It was everything SCORPIA advertised to lure candidates. Automated targets, holographic projection, customised speed settings, hardware integrated into a software interface. It had taken some time, but he'd figured it out enough to put together a program of his own imagining. Every twenty targets, they came a little faster. It started slow, but it was beginning to get challenging.

The next three students to come in had taken to staring with something between shock and awe as their as-yet unknown instructor stepped up his pace. It was only when all five of his students had arrived hat he stopped, hitting the pause button.

"Fifty-seven minutes. One-hundred-and-twelve shots on-target. Zero off-target." He ran his eyes along the line. "Do any of you believe you can do better?"

The silence was deafening.

"You are not expected to reach this level as SCORPIA agents." His smile was cold, but sure. "However, a degree of competence is required to ensure your safety in the field. I am here to assess your competence and provide you with… guidance… on how to improve."

He indicated towards the range behind him. "Take your places. We have three hours."

The Chairman glanced over at Dr Three in the meeting room and paused the video recording. "Did you tell him to take on this persona?"

"All him." Dr Three blinked slowly. "It was certainly effective, if not what we expected from him."

"You have no concerns about his suitability?"

"If I had concerns, I would have left him in Washington."`

"I hope you're right." The Chairman tapped his pen against the page for a second. "It is, after all, your sponsorship supporting his appointment."

"Only if he agrees." Dr Three hesitated slightly. Only someone who knew him would know notice. "I'm surprised the board agreed to the conditions. It will set us directly against several of our competitors. Several of the Russian Bratva utilise children runners at almost every level of their organisation. The Chinese also."

"And yet you still suggested it." The Chairman lay the pen down carefully, "Perhaps you should explain why."

"We change or we die."

"Then why are you confused that the board voted in favour?" He pulled a folder of paperwork out of a drawer and passed over a single sheet. "It was even unanimous. SCORPIA changes. "

"With Alex Rider as part of it?"

"He still has two days to dec-"

There was a knock at the door.

"Dr Three. Chairman." Alex stood easily in front of them, relaxed, confident, assured. "I'm going to need that list."


	2. Meta-Chapter: a note from the author

_This chapter is a meta chapter, a note from me - the author - to you, the reader._

_By far, this has been the story people wanted to see continued most of my current literary droolings. The support of the Alex Rider discord members is always great to see… and they urged me to continue it, despite the fact it was always intended to be a one-shot that left everything open to imagination._

_Why a gap? Why a note? It is very rare that I ever include trigger warnings in a story, let alone make a point of making a separate chapter to do so. Generally speaking, I'm of the opinion that trigger warnings essentially double as spoilers, and I dislike spoiling my own stories._

_However… in this instance, I have written a oneshot that heads rapidly into a dystopian reality so dark that it's only fair to give both context and warning._

_Pongnosis (author of the excellent "Devil and the Deep Blue Sea", which has set the new standard for aspiring fanfic authors in this fandom) commented in a PM that it was fantastic to see me publishing this story on the 30th anniversary of the Convention on the RIghts of the Child. This was completely coincidental, but incredibly relevant._

_The Convention - a UN motion adopted by 196 countries around the world - states that children have basic rights. The right to life. To their own name and identity. To be raised by their parents within a family or cultural grouping. To have a relationship with parental figures, even if the parents are separated. To be protected from abuse and exploitation. That their privacy should be protected, and their lives not subjected to excessive interference. For their lives to be free of "cruel and degrading forms of punishment". _

_Signatories must take all appropriate action to protect children from all forms of physical or mental violence, and help to establish standards and strategies to prevent and overcome the abuse of children's capacity to work._

_When we consider this, Anthony Horowitz's world is one in which countries either willfully ignore it in favour of young children being propelled into situations beyond reasonable expectations of their capability to handle it… or the convention never exists._

_So where does that leave me? When I decided to sit down and continue this, the first few scenes of the continuation leapt into my mind fully formed. I knew immediately how powerful it would be. And then, once it was written? I sat. I stared. I took a deep breath._

_A good friend from the aforementioned discord was the first to see this chapter. They described it as "breathtakingly horrible." The second described it as "painfully realistic". The third took nearly two days away from the chapter after they read the first scene._

_The worst of humanity is represented within this story and I doubted my willingness to publish at first. Everyone that I invited to read drafts encouraged me to keep it in, that the writing did nothing but highlight the frightening - realistic - situation that children around the world find themselves in when their rights are ignored._

_The story will recover eventually, but the story will also sail into the depths of the abyss._

_The children in this story are not permitted their access to those basic rights. They are denied an identity. They are taken away from their families. They are abused, they are exploited. The have no privacy. Their lives will be interfered with. Punishment that they suffer is cruel and degrading - physically, emotionally, sexually._

_This is my trigger warning. It will apply from here-on out._


	3. Chapter 2

**AN: You should read Chapter 2 First.**

**Being entirely serious, stop now. Go back, read Chapter 2. If you skim past this author's note and/or read Ch3 before Ch2 then you may regret doing so. The story rating has also been changed to M as of this chapter, and will remain so for the rest of the story - however long that is.**

She pounded on the wall in frustration, feeling the cool concrete filling the gap. Her fingers ran over the entire space, and her heart died when she found the wooden spoon they'd snuck into their cell. It poked out into the cell, the handle bound within the fresh concrete. Enough to be obvious that it was intentional. Designed to crush their spirits. Her first lashed out again, before she collapsed against the wall, tears streaming down her face.

She had been trapped here for six years. This wasn't her first attempt to find a way out. Nor even her second. Frankly, she had lost count, somewhere. Lessons were learnt every time. The cooling body of Petrov lay on her bed when they dragged her back, kicking and screaming, after the second attempt. It was supposed to teach her that her actions had consequences. What she remembered is that her plans had to be ambitious. It wasn't enough to escape. She had to take all of them. Elisa. Yasha. Markus. The new one, who was still too scared of their own shadow to tell them what their name was before it was stolen, beaten out of them. Before their name was banished to hushed whispers on the nights when they were allowed to share their food, their warmth, their lives.

Her parents had sold her. She remembered that. Twenty thousand. A pittance for a life, but a pittance that let them escape to Romania. She'd been punished for that too. Their escape was not welcomed. Loyalty is important, they told her. She'd spat in their face and told them that only the free could afford something like loyalty. Her parents didn't know, she was sure. How could they? The promise of a better life for their eleven-year-old daughter. Serving their country, sweetened with cash to grease the wheels.

She didn't want to kill them for it. Her parents didn't deserve that. Maybe she wanted to throw them into a pit and force them to run laps. Force them to fight in a ring. Clothes ripped and tattered, body bruised and battered. Hire a man to break into her mother's room, drunk and desperate. Would her mother find it in herself to open her mouth and pretend to beg for it? To clench her teeth and refuse to let go until they beat her into oblivion, blood streaming down her chin? They hadn't tried it again, because they hadn't had to. Elisa was there, and given the choice, she would never regret protecting the younger girl.

Escape was a dream. The only one she permitted herself. The tears fell down her face. A new plan then. That's what she needed. A way to get through the door, or the wall, or the ceiling, or the floor. Through the tears, she ran her hands around the room. It was pitch black. They didn't let her have a light any more after she electrocuted one of the guards with it. Break this wire, twist it around this part during one of the outages. Ask for them to change the bulb once the power came back. Steal his pass. She made it to Yasha before they came and threw them all back in the cells.

Creativity. Imagination. Improvisation. Skills for the field, not for the lodgings she was assigned. Go to Ukraine. Steal a dossier from the American embassy. Go to Hungary. Plant evidence of an affair in the Prime Minister's car just before his wife took it on holiday with her. The wife never came back, and she hated the woman for it. The freedom to run. They knew they had her tied down: she would never leave the other children to fester. Even now, when she was planning things, she knew there were two days before she could even think to make her next attempt. Yasha was on assignment.

It was halfway through her meticulous examination of the third wall of her cell that she heard gunfire. Not the steady consistent sound of target range shooting, but an unrelenting wave of chaotic noise. Bursts and shouts and percussive spikes vibrating through the floor. She cocked her head, listening intently. Kalashnikovs. But another rifle as well. Triple-taps she didn't recognise.

There was only one conclusion. Someone knew where they were. The compound was under attack. For a brief second she wondered if they would let her out to fight, and then remembered they knew her. They wouldn't let her out for the very reason she wanted them to release the electric lock on the door. She would kill every last one of them and then run like the wind.

Eight minutes later the gunfire began to peter out, and faint voices came through the walls. Men calling out to each other, clearing the building room by room. English, not Russian. A hope stirred in her heart, and she took a moment to artfully rip her top, kick off a sock, slam a hand against the wall to make it bleed, smear mud and dirt and blood against her face, blink furiously to get fresh tears to stream down her face. Harmless, hopeless, naive teenage girl out of her depth.

The door swung open, sending light spilling across her and leaving a man silhouetted against the light from the corridor. Cordite and gunsmoke seeped into the room. _"Hello Svetlana."_

"_My name is Anastasia. Have you come to save me?_"

"_Svetlana." _His voice was softly rebuking. "_There is no need to pretend. We are here for _all _of you. I just need you to show me where they are._"

Her eyes narrowed. She hadn't confessed to being Svetlana since the day she had her hair ripped out for responding to it. She hadn't dared to voice her old name since. "_And why should I do that?_"

_"Because I am Orion."_ He offered a hand to her, _"And Yasha said you were the only one who ever tried to protect him."_

Her heart stopped. _"You have Yasha?" _

_"He's right here actually."_

The man vanished for a second, leaving the door open, and she slowly climbed to her feet. The sound of running approached and then a small face peeked around the door, smiling at her nervously. She had her arms around him seconds later, her hands running over him proving for injuries, finding none.

She whirled, holding Yasha close, eyes flicking around the tight space until they found the man, Orion, leaning casually against a wall. "_What will you do with them?"_

He paused for a second, looking at her disheveled persona, seeming to peer behind her bravado into the vulnerability underneath, until he found what he was looking for. An answer she needed to hear: "_Nothing as bad as was done here._"

Three thousand miles away, Dr Three poured through the files of the children they had located as yet. Three weeks into his crusade, and Orion was proving to be a singularly effective operative. His focus, his dedication, his abilities. It was chilling to see it in action.

Typically, legendary operatives were revealed as exceptionally lucky when you had access to their mission reports. But somewhere in the archive cabinet to his right were the mission reports from the seventeen days of operations Orion had overseen so far. His record was no matter of lucky coincidence. There was a streak of ruthlessness that had escaped their notice before - or that perhaps had been hidden away by MI6 lest it tarnish their agent's seemingly immaculate record.

The latest discovery in Zlatoust was barely the tip of the iceberg. What the children had been through… he despaired to think that such brute force methods were the pinnacle of agent development. None of the operatives would have been capable of blending into regular society once they reached adulthood, if they were capable of it at all. It just seemed inefficient. Wasteful. He scowled, and made a mark in the margin of one file.

The oldest, Svetlana, had so much promise, but so many problems. It was her methods at striking back against her "handlers" that had drawn their attention to the facility at all. A local hospital had been a little loose with their files surrounding permanent damage to a man's genitals. Paired with intelligence reports surrounding children operatives in use in Eastern Europe, and a little light hacking of Russian government archives, it had been the work of a few hours to identify exactly where to look.

Orion had been off the ground almost before it was confirmed, press-ganging an entire SCORPIA strike team crammed into two stealth helicopters en route. A small airbase in the north of Kazakhstan was receiving them, with their four passengers, where they would transfer to a larger airport in the north-east of China, where Orion's thirty-one other rescues were currently lodging, surrounded by enough security to discourage any passing intelligence agencies from getting ideas.

Seventeen operations. Seventeen successes. Seventeen contributions to a problem they hadn't expected. They had expected each of their dossiers to reveal potential problems that could be solved with a little diplomacy. Instead, they were revealing the depths of humanity's depravity. Orion's rampage through fourteen countries had been justified, no one could question that, and it left them with a simple question: where could they store such a valuable cargo as thirty-five defectors?

Most of the world was out for the simple reason that any collection of children under SCORPIA's influence would be seen as an immediate target. Even if this could somehow be avoided, there was a second list of countries that had to be avoided for the simple reason that Orion would be taking aggressive action against them. France, Italy, Germany. America, Russia, China. Bulgaria. Australia. Britain was also likely to take offence, given Orion's origins. The middle-east had some promise, but was perhaps would expose the defectors to unacceptable levels of risk.

Seychelles, however. They still had that compound there, complete with runway. It wouldn't handle their current plane, but a changeover in Cairo would fix that. The Egyptians were always reassuringly pragmatic, and had already contacted SCORPIA to affirm that they would begin to crackdown on child soldiers within their forces. It was a token gesture, but one that indicated the desire to avoid at least some of the shit Orion was going to send flying as he shrivelled it into the pan.

He was reaching for his phone when it rang, flashing the callers number. What a coincidence. "Orion"

"Doctor." He sounded a little tired, Dr Three determined, but that was to be expected. 14 countries was an insane number to have conducted operations within so quickly. Orion had barely sat still for five minutes since agreeing with the Chairman that he would work within SCORPIA.

"I was about to ring you. I understand your operations have been successful."

"They have." There was a slight pause, then the calm voice of the newest guest to their executive board continued, "I am extracting thirty-five children from China now. I'm taking them to Cairo."

"Cairo?" Dr Three injected a little curiosity into his voice. "And what is your plan from there?"

"I presume you still have the Seychelles compound?" Dr Three blinked. That was going to be his suggestion. He recovered quickly enough to catch the end of Orion's phrase, "-else l will make arrangements with the Israeli government. The Mossad owe me a few favours."

"I will get a plane ready for you." Dr Three pressed the button under his desk to get his secretary's attention. "We can lend you Seychelles."

There was a pause. "Thank you Doctor. This wont be forgotten." A click. The hum of a dead line, and then silence for his thoughts. A favour from Orion. What a prize. Perhaps he could be convinced to assist the Australian branch with the minor problem that had been plaguing their operations since the night Yu was dispatched…

It was the early hours of yet another night without sleep when the plane began its descent into Cairo airport. Alex's eyes scanned over the children in his care critically, observing the way they each seemed to have found a corner, even in the corner-less confines of the transport craft they had appropriated. There was no trust here, and almost none of them had slept. It was to be expected, really. Privately he could admit that a stranger appearing at his door and spiriting him away would not have been part of his admittedly irregular day to day expectations. An assassination attempt? A bit of light blackmail? Anything that wasn't a way out. No one expected to find that.

It was Svetlana's little group of Russian killers that were the only ones to get any sleep. Hidden behind her, curled into balls as they slept, whilst the seventeen-year old girl glared at anyone who cast their eyes at them. He had met that glare for a while, until it softened a little. Caution, fear, but perhaps the beginning of respect. She hadn't been convinced to leave the cabin to get changed, preferring to reveal the scars and stains on her skin to everyone rather than leave her charges. From what he'd seen, even the physical bruises would place her in a category of her own amongst these wretched souls.

His heart ached with something between pity and pride. He recognised the defiance, the insolence. The deadly confidence barely cloaked behind grevious wounds. Had she been anywhere but Russia, had she had less children in her care, had she found the right combination of luck and skill through sheer, desperate determination… they would not have found anything but bodies at her detention centre. She would have been gone, friends at her feet, into the depths of the underworld, only to be seen in the slash of a blade, or the flash of a muzzle.

It made some of his concerns much more pressing. He had expected a need for debriefing, for medical care, for psychological assistance. With Seychelles confirmed, the therapist he had in mind could be contacted. The medical staff were already preparing a ward for them. They would recover over the next few weeks, months. Years. However, he knew all too well the damage that an unoccupied, capable teenager could get into. He had never quite forgotten dropping a barge through the roof of a convention centre, or interrupting a gang greet and meet during his lunch break. It had come with consequences, and those consequences had always brought him back into the shadows.

"Orion." The strike team leader tapped his shoulder. "Do you have a plan for them?"

"Thirty-five kids at a SCORPIA compound." Alex shook his head, "Its going to be a fucking mess, Lance. This whole thing is."

"Sir." The operative, Lance, hesitated for a second. "You know they'll say we're trainin-"

"They'll say whatever it takes to justify launching their assault on us." The lack of sleep was beginning to creep into Alex's awareness, a little dimming around the edges of his vision as he started to fight to keep his eyelids open. "Your job is to keep them safe. I'll find a way to make it work."

"Would you like a suggestion?"

Alex laughed, a short harsh sound. "Always."

"Is there any reason we _can't _do that? Train them I mean."

"The point was to get them out." He nodded towards Svetlana, whose eyes were still constantly on the move. "You think she'd react well to me putting the kids back in the field?"

"I never said we should put them in the field." Lance grinned, his teeth gleaming in the dim light, "I said we should train them. Self-defence. Languages. Weapons handling. They're always going to be a target. Why not make them a target with teeth?"

Alex paused, his immediate objections being turned over and over. A thought came to him and he snorted, "SCORPIA summer school for troubled teenagers. Do you think Dr Three would make a good headteacher?"

Tulip Jones, Director of Operations, was very rarely called to a meeting at Downing Street. It was even rarer that her input was required at a COBRA meeting, the highest level of emergency meeting anyone would admit to knowing about. Today, her heels flip-flopped loudly on the concrete floor as she strode purposefully towards the room. A matter of urgent national security, the secretary had said, which meant that the Prime Minister had finally bothered to read her briefing on the whole Alex Rider fuck-up.

"How bad is it?" His voice wasn't even stressed. He sounded positively relaxed, as if the government wasn't on the verge of collapsing. "Could you summarise the events so far for us?"

"Our best operative has defected to SCORPIA, an international paramilitary terrorist organisation who specialise in toppling governments and other large scale sensitive operations in all global arenas. En route, he assassinated my predecessor and the Director of Operations at the CIA." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Since then, intelligence reports indicate a number of decisive strikes against other intelligence agencies, targeting the handlers of child operatives. Satellite footage show them departing from China, likely to somewhere in the middle-east, with at least twenty child agents."

"Worst case scenario?"

"So far, it seems that he doesn't hold any particular grudge against us. Whilst he could take his story to the press, it is likely we could discredit his information easily. We have been sanitizing our records." She nodded at her MI5 counterpart, "Thomas should be able to inform you how their experiments in child operatives is being wrapped up. I would assume that if it is going to schedule then our risk factor is relatively minimal."

Thomas Killian nodded assertively, "Zara Asker, the manager of our campus, has confirmed that there are only six operatives left on site. The rest have been dispersed successfully. They are all signatories to the Official Secret Act, but we will be keeping tabs on them nonetheless. We can suppress media attention before it takes off if needs be, but aside from two who recently lost a close friend, there is only a low risk of exposure."

One of the cabinet ministers coughed lightly. "Do we know what the outcome would be if there was exposure? Low risk implies possibility. I'd like to have a contingency."

Tulip and Thomas eyed each other for a second before Thomas reluctantly leaned forwards. "Best case scenario is that the government would collapse."

Tulip nodded, agreeing, "We would have to conduct a full analysis but my expectation would be that a number of prominent politicians would immediately resign in protest. Objectively, the optics are not good. The government has been seen to break at least two UN charters in this whole affair - your majority would last a matter of hours, maybe a day at most. Even if you could somehow cling to parliament, the next general election would be a massacre. The intelligence agencies would come under scrutiny which we can't afford at this time, and that's without considering any of the political fallout."

"Speaking of political fallout…" The foreign secretary jumped in, "How many of our allies would be affected should Rider decide to attack our interests?"

"It's hard to tell. Certainly the Americans would also be struggling. We're aware of Troy, their young operative. He was recently seriously wounded, and they sent him out to Syria on an infiltration mission nonetheless. He's in their witness protection scheme, mostly so they can keep an eye on him we think. Unfortunately, it's likely that any overtly hostile action from former-Agent Rider would lead to Troy being dragged into the limelight."

"So what's the plan?" The Prime Minister refocused the discussion on what he saw as the most prominent issue, "We can't afford to lose our majority. I won't stand for it! Give me solutions."

Thomas frowned. "I began compiling a disinformation campaign to discredit any of our operatives that decided to speak out. We could perhaps extend this to the MI6 program that Alan was running. An extra agent shouldn't be problematic."

"And we can develop something similar," Tulip said, "It'll take a few days, but we should be able to stay ahead of the curve. If he tries to start a media campaign, we'll deploy counterintelligence assets to ensure nothing comes of it. You will still face issues, but you might be able to mitigate the damage for long enough to recover in time for an election."

"Good." The Prime Minister cast an appraising glance around the room. "Is there any other questions regarding this emergency addition to the agenda before I dismiss the Directors and move onto our on-going problems in Afghanistan?"

A man Tulip didn't recognise raised a hand slightly. "What would you say Rider's main goals are?"

"At present?" Tulip shrugged, "He's been targeting child operatives and extracting them. Our presumption is that he continues on his stated goal of removing under-18s from the intelligence services, though we have also noted several strikes against criminal enterprises that have utilised child operatives."

"So you would say that any other child operatives would be at risk of receiving his attention, and possibly defecting?"

Tulip's heart jumped into her mouth almost as fast as her stomach dropped. "Any… other... child operatives?"

"Dear gods, Director Jones - we didn't recruit Alan for his personal hygiene and dress sense! The last teenager we sent on operations rose to be the best agent this country has ever seen. Surely you didn't think Lawrence was the only one being groomed to replace him? " His expression was almost jovial, "So how bad is it? Should we grab some paras or something? A bit of close protection? Send them out the country? How far is Rider going to go?"

Tulip stared, and then slowly stood up, shaking her head. "I resign."

"Director Jones?" Thomas half-raised out of his chair, but she cut him off with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"You're all fucked." She glared at the unknown man, "Agent Rider assassinated the head of an allied intelligence agency because someone sent him three photos and a few sheets of A4. What do you think he's going to do to you when he finds out you stupid bastards went behind his back?"

"We've only got four of them." The man shrugged, "Maybe five, depending on how recruitment goes today."

"And you haven't even stopped digging your hole." Tulip shook her head in disgust. "You don't get it do you?"

The Prime Minister interjected with a polite cough, "Don't you think you're being a bit hasty here Tulip? I'm sure he would be willing to find some compro-"

"Oh yes. Compromise." She barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes. "Orion, known assassin, potentially the latest recruit of a known international terrorist mercenary company. One of the most dangerous people we know about, both to this country as a whole and to each and every single person in this room individually. He had one rule. Only one rule. No children. And you! You! - You can't even manage to keep to that."

"It's only a few of them!" The man pushed himself out of his chair, his finger pointing towards her accusatively. "If you had kept him under your control properly then this wouldn't be an issue!"

"Maybe when he puts a bullet through your head you'll be able to replace whatever junk you installed up there with something worth describing as a brain." She batted his hand away, tossing her clearance badge on the table. "I won't be coming to your funeral. It'll be the perfect place for him to put a bullet through the skulls of your staff before they finish fucking up some other child's life."

The door slammed shut behind her.

Three days later, and only a few miles away from Downing Street, a man peered over his glasses at the twenty-something dirty blonde lounging in an expensive suit on the sofa in his waiting area. "Mr Rider?"

"Alex, please." He offered a firm handshake and met the man's eyes. "I'm glad you found time to meet with me Dr Walker."

"I was intrigued by your email." He ushered Alex into the room, and paused as he sat behind his desk. "You can call me Ian. I'm surprised you know about the doctorate. I haven't exactly advertised it. I've been insisting on not using my title whilst working in pediatric psychology."

"I can't say I'm surprised you buried it." Alex raised an eyebrow elegantly, "Intelligence officers very rarely are offered the opportunity to speak honestly about their work, even after they retire. What advantage would it have offered you?"

"You don't seem old enough to be talking like that." Dr Ian Walker reassessed Alex, noticing the poise, the tautness in the apparently relaxed posture, the fact that his jacket was still on, despite the blazing heat. Perfect for keeping a holster hidden. Then he took a wild guess. "Normally it's the retired agents that are looking for a change of career, not the active ones."

"I served my time." Alex smiled grimly, and carried on before Ian could pose the obvious objection. "And before you ask: how disappointed would you like to be in your country?"

There was a long pause, before Ian sighed. "There's only one reason you're here then. How many kids are there?"

"Around forty, but we're expecting the number to go up."

"Location?"

"Seychelles."

"Salary?"

"Significant."

"Legality?"

"Less questionable than what the kids went through before we relocated them."

"Forty. You found forty?" Ian seemed to sag. "Jesus."

"We found a lot more. We've only managed to _extract_ thirty-five so far." Alex pulled a tablet from the satchel at his feet, tapped a code into it and passed it over. "There's another fifteen or so that are high-risk, and maybe another twenty medium-risk. We're hoping that we can convince some of the more flexible governments to see things our way so we don't have to extract the rest of them."

"We?" Ian flicked through the student files efficiently, absorbing the key points of information. "Who would I be working for?"

"You would run the entire facility." Alex paused. "On behalf of SCORPIA."

The man froze halfway through swiping through another student record. "SCORPIA as in the moral-free international mercenary corporation with a questionable record on ethics and legality?"

"They're trying to change."

"What are you doing working for them?" Ian levelled a finger across the desk. "Smithers dropped me an email weeks ago and told me to listen when you came knocking, so I can't believe you've just gone and destroyed whatever faith the man had in you."

"He emailed you?" Alex blinked. "How does he know these things?"

"How many options did you realistically have for colleagues if you were going to try to help kids tied up in this mess? There aren't many people I'd trust with the information you're hinting at and I can't believe I'm even half as paranoid as SCORPIA."

"We found three of you actually." Alex smiled at the look of shock, "A medical doctor working in Uganda, a woman specialising in therapy for soldiers in Mexico and then you. If you turn it down then we'll have someone eminently qualified, but you're our first choice."

"Why me?"

Alex sat back, arching his fingers under his chin. "Tell me about your thesis."

"Child agents are exposed to a number of psychological stimuli which they are likely to never recover from without specialised help. The thesis identified a number of vectors for helping them to renormalise and enter socie-"

"I meant tell me about the reasons _why_, Dr Walker. Britain didn't have any child agents. Not then. Not for a while, in fact. Trust me: I should know."

"Really? You have to know?" Ian rubbed his eyes tiredly. "There was this kid. I was on an assignment out in Tartu, there was a blizzard, we got stuck halfway up a mountain. He was a Russian asset, and he was 17. I spent the entire week trying to convince him to run, trying to convince him to leave. I told him that children had no place in this world. I would protect him, get him out, keep him alive."

"What happened?"

"He wasn't convinced." Ian pulled his glasses off and stared into space. "He said there were others. Others like him. They had this whole compound. He couldn't just leave them." His eyes refocused on Alex's face. "When the blizzard cleared, he left. I woke up one morning and he was just gone. Never saw him again. Three weeks later? MI6 called me in, out of the blue. Alan told me the kid was dead. They were monitoring this compound and then the whole thing just went up." His hands fluttered upwards, capturing the essence of an explosion. "The flames burnt everyone and everything inside. They had to piece together the entire story from the teeth of the seven children that were there."

"I never forgot how desperate he was, how urgently he clung to life, how much he cared." There was a moment of silence before Ian continued. "I resigned the following week. Started my psychology degree. I couldn't save Yasha, but I knew there would be others. That's what it was for, the thesis. To save the rest."

"Yasha wasn't the name he went by for the rest of his life."

Ian froze. "Sorry?"

"SCORPIA knew him as Cossack, but his given name was Yassen Gregorovich, and he never forgot what you told him." Alex smiled. "SCORPIA has been watching you for a _very_ long time, Dr Ian Walker."

"He got out?" Ian shook his head. "Completely?"

"He served SCORPIA for nearly twenty years." Alex sighed. "He passed away recently, but he spent the rest of his life pushing for SCORPIA to remove children from their operation."

"The whole time?" Ian seemed at a loss for words. "Twenty years?"

"And for the most part, I should add, he was successful," said Alex, "My job as his spiritual successor has been to extend it further."

"What do you mean?"

"Those children on that tablet?" He stood up and took the tablet, flicking through them. "This is Svetlana. She is this generation's Yassen Gregorovich."

"The Russians?"

"Thought they could recreate him. Broken bits and all."

"And did they succeed?" He snatched the tablet off Alex and furiously scrolled through the pages of text. "Is she going to be okay?"

"I don't know." Alex offered his hand to the man. "But I think we could find out together."

Ian looked down at the hand, and scrolled back up to look at the guarded eyes of a small Russian girl.

And with a handshake, SCORPIA's latest training and recovery facility had it's first member of staff.


	4. Chapter 3

Alex occasionally wondered how Mr Bray would handle matters at the school.

Two children having a spat became rather more interesting when both of them were third dan black belts in a martial art of choice, had access to a wide variety of weapons, and had spent half a decade being taught how to "improvise" in the field when they didn't have access. Two broken bones and a minor stab wound later, and he still wasn't sure whether the two children in question were going to try to start it all over again the next time one made an inappropriate comment regarding the national cuisine of the other's home country.

Having them all as full-time boarders was also occasionally difficult. The facility had not been designed for use by this many individuals. The free-for-all shooting range had lasted less than three hours before a minor scuffle broke out and one child sent to the nurse they'd pulled out of some battlefield hospital somewhere. Now it was used only according to a strict, rigid, timetable. With shooting lessons twice a week for all involved, in-between their self defense lessons and what could only be described as "lessons in being normal."

How many child assassins found it easier to hotwire a car than to boil a kettle?

A depressingly large number, as it turned out.

Physical security at the compound had also been abandoned to some extent. The keycard system that they had originally decided to use had been hacked within a matter of hours, and any door that only needed a key may as well be considered "open to all". Lockpicking was a very popular pastime. As shown by the lockpicking club needing an increasingly large selection of locks. He was still slightly suspicious of the board donating a unending series of increasingly complicated locks, but resources were resources and he didn't really have the energy to argue against freebies.

Alex, after some thought, had settled on a far more pragmatic approach to compound security: if you were caught, you lost all privileges to visit the nearby island. If you were in a fight, you lost all privileges to visit the nearby island. If you didn't do your homework, you lost all privileges to visit the nearby island. And if that wasn't enough, he would take away your gun for a second infraction.

Oddly enough, that seemed to work: precious few had tested the boundaries once they were established and absolutely no one had risked the second infraction yet. Perhaps they were expecting this miraculous escape to the tender embrace of an international terrorist association to grind to a gut-clenching halt the moment enough hostility was thrown at them.

Physical _protection _at the compound was taken far more seriously. The Egyptian government had, surprisingly, committed an extensive level of resources to the island. Supply planes were welcomed into Cairo on a regular basis without any issues at all.

Many of the East African nations had cautiously reached out. Alex had rebuffed one over their on-going use of child soldiers, but was pragmatic enough to at least stay on reasonable terms with the others. One brief run-in with Somalian pirates had been enough to convince them not to risk coming near the island again, whilst the Indian government had been in talks to provide a more cohesive protection regime. Their carrier had been lugging it's way around the world recently and had settled into a new placement west of the Maldives - just close enough to bust it's fat metallic rear end through the waves to get to them in case of trouble.

On the island itself, Alex had negotiated for Lance to remain with his strike team, and had two other strike teams on rotation. The board was happy to only ever send out two of the three teams, and their proximity to Asia and Africa kept the strike teams busy. The risks of attracting hostile attention were well balanced by the benefits of having nearly thirty highly trained operatives on-hand.

Which, really, only left specific internal matters to resolve. Alex knew that some would expect them to be easy to handle. Unfortunately, Alex knew better.

"I want to kill them."

Alex calmly closed his folder of paperwork and put it to one side, before looking up at the angry Russian girl who had just stormed into his office, exactly on time. "You're going to have to be a bit more precise." He stated bluntly, letting his eyes rest at a point between hers. "There's a lot of people you might want to kill."

"My parents. The _baystryuk_ who sold me." She glared. "I want a flight back to the mainland. And maybe a gun."

"What then?" Alex raised his eyebrow, face impassive, "You kill them both. Your younger sister too, perhaps?"

"_Da_." She grinned viciously, "Fuck them."

"Have you considered what's going to happen after that?"

"You're going to bring me back here and I'll carry on looking after Mikael and Yasha." She sounded almost genuinely confused. "What else would happen?"

Alex let out a sigh and rubbed his forehead for a second. "Have you discussed this with Dr Walker?"

Svetlana scowled, "He would tell me that revenge is an impulse I shouldn't act on."

"Of course you haven't." Alex paused, then gestured towards the chair. "Allow me to explain." Alex gestured towards a chair, and she collapsed into it with uncharacteristic sullenness. "You have been adapting well. I was reviewing your file yesterday, and your scores are amongst the highest of the students here. Of course, you are also one of the oldest, so that is to be expected, but nonetheless: it is very impressive."

"However…" His voice trailed off for a second as he tried to find the words, "You are seventeen, Svetlana."

"You were fifteen when you took your revenge."

"I see you've been looking at SCORPIA casefiles." He smiled, "Those are classified. I can see we will have to improve our encryption."

"I stole Dr Walker's passcodes." Svetlana shrugged, "He is slow."

"He is also one of the most valuable members of staff here." Alex's voice was gently chiding, "SCORPIA does not spare any expense on your behalf, but we would struggle to find anyone capable of replacing him."

"I doubt he minds." Svetlana tried desperately to look at least a little innocent, "He makes it so easy."

Alex's hands twitched towards a pen, feeling the need to take a note, but let it go. "Let's say I was 15. What do you think happened after I killed them?"

"Obviously nothing bad."

"My entire family was killed." Chill started to seep into his voice. "They were taken from me, and all of them were killed in front of me."

"I don't _have_ a family." Svetlana growled, "Why should I care what happened to you? It's your own fault for having weaknesses."

"Weaknesses?" Alex took a deep breath, "Yasha isn't like a brother? Mikael?"

"They are here. They are safe."

"And you want to put that at risk." She frowned, and was about to object when Alex continued, "How many secrets have inside your head? How many do you think I have inside mine? We are the dirtiest secrets of over a dozen major world powers." He raised an eyebrow, "Germany has lost two operatives to us. Why haven't they taken them back?"

"They would lose."

"You think we could win against NATO?" Alex laughed, "No."

"They are scared." Svetlana's eyes narrowed, deep in thought. She tilted her head. "Of you?"

"Sure, that's part of it." Alex acknowledged the point with a nod, "But what do you think the response of Russia would be to Germany trying to capture one of their agents?"

"Oh."

"They do not strike against us because they are afraid. Not of us, or of SCORPIA, but of every other country with the same dirty secrets." Alex's smile turned grim, "And poking a scared beast in the eye? I would recommend against it."

The bell rang, summoning students to their next lesson. Svetlana pushed herself to her feet, annoyance radiating through the air. " I will wait. For Yasha to be safe."

"That is appreciat-."

"-but when he is ready?" Her expression flashed to anger, "I will hunt them down like the dogs they are."

The door slammed shut behind her and Alex let his head fall into his hands.

Teenagers.

An hour went by with nothing but the ticking clock and scratching of a pen against paper to fill the silence. Paperwork really was the source of all evil. Or, in this case, the source of lasting supplies and communication with the outside work. He was just getting into the swing of it when a bell rang, drawing him away from meal planning and reminding him that he should do some meal eating as well.

"Sir." Lance nodded at him as he swept into the canteen. They had taken the same approach as Malagosto, with all staff and students eating at the same time in the same place. To build camaraderie.

And to remind them that Alex existed.

A little respectful terror worked wonders for keeping students under control.

"Lance." He nudged his food around his plate a little, organising it to his satisfaction. Gravy mashed into the potatoes. Sausages carefully balanced on top, like ships on a sea of mush. "Anything to discuss?"

"Do you think we could get some Arrow systems?"

Alex stared at him. "The Israeli anti-missile Arrow systems?"

"Is there a different kind?"

"Why would we need a missile defense system?"

"Well, you know." Lance gesticulated vaguely, "Just in case."

"If someone launches a nuke at us, I don't think a couple of systems will make much difference."

"But think of how _cool_ they are!" Lance's eyes gleamed with a worrying enthusiasm, "Their radar systems are almost perfect. With just a little tinkering…" He trailed off, staring into space dreamily.

"I'll add it to the wishlist."

Lance's mouth dropped open, "Seriously?"

"No."

Feeling a little more cheerful at the dejected look on the face of his head of security, Alex was almost humming to himself as he walked back towards his office, until he remembered what was waiting for him.

They say that two things are inevitable: death and taxes. Alex was beginning to mentally add "paperwork" to the list. A contract for a new cleaning company. Three requisition forms for educational materials. Two requisition forms for "educational" materials. A report on the geopolitical relationship between Iran and Pakistan and the likelihood of it spilling far enough towards the equator to cause problems on the island.

He was halfway through a particularly tedious paragraph on the naval ports of Oman when there was a knock at the door.

"Sir? You've got a phone call from the board."

Alex's hand reached out to the phone immediately. You didn't keep the board waiting. Everyone knew that.

"Orion."

The stern tones of the chair responded: "Report."

"The children are settling in well. Lance and his team have established a firm rapport with key members, and our teaching staff have been very responsive." Alex frowned. "Financially, the initial grant will cover the next twelve months. I will submit a funding proposal for long-term sustainability later this quarter."

"And the facilities?"

"They were deemed sufficient."

There was a pause for a moment, before Alex heard an almost imperceptible hint of _tenderness_ in the chair's voice, "Are you sure? There is nothing SCORPIA could do to improve them?"

Alex looked out the window, staring across the courtyard to the relatively small and uncomfortable bedrooms opposite. "Some of the children are still sharing their rooms. We were considering whether increased capac-"

"Orion!" The chair definitely sounded like there was _some _emotion now, which was very concerning. "Why did you not raise this earlier?"

"We are very grateful for the funding we have received." It sounded painfully like he was pointing out the obvious. "I would not like to presum-"

"We are investing in the future of SCORPIA." Sincerity rang through the tinny line, with an underlying tone of threat. "Do not hesitate to raise these matters."

There was a knock at his door. "Is there anything else I can assist the board with today?" Alex knew better than to question matters.

"Perhaps we could discuss Australia. I believe there is a matter of an owed favour."

"Send over the files. I should be able to take a short period of absence from the campus within the next month."

There was another knock. He frowned: his assistant should know better than to interrupt this phone call.

"We do not wish to take you away from them for too long."

Another knock.

"It _was_ described as a _minor_ favor."

A more urgent knock. His phone buzzed on his desk.

"Quite." The chair paused, just long enough for Alex's phone to buzz twice more and for his assistant to open the door with a frantic look. "Expect the details in the next shipment."

"Thank you for your time." Alex held up a finger, wincing as his phone buzzed _again_, "Goodby-"

The phone clicked, the chair ending it without any pleasantries. As soon as the phone left his ear, his assistant handed him a tablet. "Sir, you need to see this immediately."

"-rector of the CIA was murdered by an individual referred to only as Orion, an associate of the multi-national terrorist organisation known as SCORPIA. Since then, this organisation has conducted operations across the world, striking against military facilities and civilian centres without regard for human life. Orion, as the instigator and lead conspirator in this organisation's recent hostile actions, has been assessed as being one the greatest threats that the United States of America faces in our current perio-"

Alex grimaced. This was not good. His phone buzzed again. Another message. Four from Tom, starting with '_holy shit, you're on TV!'_ and ending with '_You're dead to me. You didn't tell me you were going to be an international terrorist. What am I supposed to get you for Christmas now?'_

And then one more. An unknown, withheld number: '_We did not forget you.'_

He looked back at the tablet as the President of the United States began to wrap up his address, "-fter a period of intelligence gathering, working together with our allies who have also been affected by this criminal, we have successfully identified his current location." The President looked directly into the camera, "Orion, I speak directly to you now. We looked for you. We found you. We cannot permit your crimes to go unpunished. As I speak these words, one of our submarines is surfacing beyond your horizon. It will launch a ballistic missile directly to where you are currently sitting, and it will kill you. May God deny you the peace you denied your victims. God bless our souls, and God bless America."

Alex looked up as Lance burst into the office looking fierce. "We got the kids under the de-"

And then the window exploded.


	5. Chapter 4

"Which leads us to the big topic of the week: the Seychelles Missile Strike. American naval forces launched a missile strike against one of the islands in the archipelago owned by the Republic of Seychelles earlier this week claiming they were housing a _terrorist leader_ known only as Orion who had, amongst other things, _assassinated the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency_. That's a big topic: what's your take?"

"We can talk about that on a breakfast show? Wow."

The guest sat back, taking a big breath. A moment to collect their thoughts. Calculated for portraying maximum authenticity.

"Well, obviously, we've got to talk about the _legality_ of the action as well as the morality - what gives the President of the United States of America the right to order a missile strike on the Republic of Seychelles? He says there's a terrorist organisation there, but already the local government has been clamouring for some international sanctions against them for their unwarranted military actions. Is America claiming that Seychelles were conspiring with this 'SCORPIA' group?"

"And that's the name of this terrorist group - SCORPIA?"

"So the Americans would claim, yes! - but… it's odd."

The guest paused again. Another calculation. A moment to recollect what needed to be said.

"I've been researching terrorist organisations for decades, and I've never heard of this 'SCORPIA' group - I took a look this morning and it seemed to just be like any other paramilitary organisation registered with the UN. There's a detailed history of operations stretching back to the 60s, strong relationships with many other countries, and - if I can be honest - some really quite impressive claims. They seem to be one of the best options out there for personal protection and asset security in the Middle East and throughout Asia. Where there's a warzone, SCORPIA seem to have thrived."

"Are you saying that they aren't a terrorist organisation at all?"

"No, no, no. I'm not saying that at all. I don't know if there isn't any evidence to show that they might have engaged in what the States deems 'terrorist activity' - but we do have to ask: the United States has worked _closely_ with the group in the past. If they thought they were 'terrorists' then why did they do that? In fact, the SCORPIA board of directors released a press statement yesterday that made it very clear that they were unaware of any complaints that the American government had about their conduct."

He lent forwards in his seat, coming to the edge of the uncomfortable sofa they insisted on for the early morning shows. It made him seem earnest. Genuine. A little passionate. Things people loved in a story.

"Here's the confusing bit: if SCORPIA is a terrorist group - and again, by all accounts, they seem like an entirely legal and competent paramilitary organisation - and if they have taken any of the actions that America has accused them of, then where's the evidence? Certainly we haven't seen the United States release anything yet. It's something I'm looking forward to them showing us."

"Which really leads us back to what you said earlier: it's not just about the _legality_ of these actions, but also the _morality_. What's your take on that?"

"Well, I'm not a priest." There was choked laughter at the bad joke. "But it raises some concerns for me. If America is willing to launch missile strikes against a country without pursuing other diplomatic routes first, how can we trust them in any other diplomatic negotiation? There's a right way to do things and a wrong way to do things and now - I'm afraid - we seem to be seeing that there's an American way to do things: guilty in the eyes of the President. And if that doesn't terrify you, imagine that power in the hands of any of the great military dictators of the last century."

"Thank you for that. An interesting, insightful look into the world of politics from one of the UN's foremost legal advisors. Is SCORPIA a paramilitary organisation unjustly and illegally attacked by the American government, or will the American government be able to substantiate their claims that the world should not prosecute them for their hasty actions last week? We'll get back to that, after the break."

There were three dead.

Three bodies lying wrapped in cloth in the morgue at the bottom of the compound.

Alex had been stood there for four hours so far. Orion had been stood there for four hours so far. The lines between them had never been firm, but Alex, Orion, both agreed that this was not acceptable.

Three dead.

None of them were children, but they could have been. The missile strike had overshot, hitting the quarters used by compound security rather than the student compound, killing the three members of compound security who were off duty.

Three dead. Three families to contact. Three families to apologise to on behalf of SCORPIA for the unexpected, unpredictable actions of the American government.

Apologies didn't really cut it.

It was only today that they'd managed to find the bodies, buried in the depths of the rubble. It was only yesterday that they managed to finish sweeping the glass out of every last corner. There had been injuries, a lot of them. Scrapes, bruises, shards of glass flying into fleshy weaknesses, into eyes.

Most of them would recover physically within a few weeks.

Dr Walker was less sure how many of them would recover mentally, even given a few months.

Their safe space, their escape. Violated.

There were footsteps behind him. Sensible shoes, but smart shoes. His assistant then. "Mr Rider."

He tilted his head, anger still roaring through his ears, days after the incident. "Yes?"

"The board called."

"Do they have any answers? How did this happen."

"They wanted to apologise."

"They have nothing to apologise for. I just need answers."

"Have you told them that?"

His fist clenched slowly on the table where it had been carefully, oh so carefully, resting. "Answers."

He didn't hear a sigh, but he knew there was one. He knew that there was something irrational about his demands. Maybe he should be doing something else. There was plenty to be done. Buildings to redesign, with bunkers in every corner. Windows to upgrade, blast-proof and bullet-proof. Politicians to contact. A security team to replace

"Sir?"

.

Three dead.

"They're going to die for this." His face was carefully blank. "When I find them, I'm going to kill them."

"We know sir." He felt a hand softly touch his arm. "That's why the rest of us are still here. We know."

Alex turned abruptly. "I am going to go and shower. Then I am going to eat. Then I want to speak to the board."

"Sir."

"I think it's time to discuss stepping up some of my plans."

Tulip Jones stared at her TV screen blankly, watching as the news cycled back around - again - to the Seychelles Missile Strike. They'd gone and done it then. She can't say that she was surprised but - the children. They'd known there were children. She'd known there were children.

Wasn't that why she'd resigned?

She hadn't bothered to find another job yet. She hadn't expected to live past the end of the week. Now that they'd thrown missiles at the fucking schoolhouse she was pretty sure she'd be dead. Within two weeks, she thought grimly.

She tapped her fingers against her phone nervously. She hadn't had a reply from him yet. She didn't know how many had died. If any had died. It still made her feel sick to her stomach.

Had it been worth it? The risk?

Smithers had considered resigning barely minutes after he received notice of hers, but hadn't. Not immediately. Not until he'd had a chance to change a few things. Alex was predictable to those that knew him, and SCORPIA - for all their secrecy - had genuinely been making efforts to have at least some legitimate business dealings. There weren't many facilities where you could look after that many child soldiers. So they'd done something.

Just a small something. Nothing anyone would notice. Perhaps even an understandable mistake. Switching some numbers around in a report, changing a few designations here and there.

Enough to get them all buried beneath the ground in a cell so secret that the prime minister hadn't even signed off on it.

Her phone buzzed under her fingers. A reply. She felt sick to her gut. It didn't say much. It didn't have to. '_We know what you did_.'

'_How many?_' Her fingers danced across the keypad, not even hesitating. She had to know.

There wasn't an immediate reply. She stared at the television screen blankly again. The only photos they had caught one building absolutely razed to the ground, the epicentre of the explosion. One building still standing, a wing damaged, the rest intact. One building almost untouched, the windows blown out.

'_Three. No children._'

Her head span. It had paid off. Switching the coordinates of the buildings round. Taking that risk that Alex would want the larger space, the proximity to the quarters of the only building big enough to house the kids. That he wouldn't banish his refugees far away from him the moment he stopped to take a breath. That Alex _cared_ enough to be involved. But three deaths. Security, she presumed, or something close to it.

'_I'm sorry_.'

'_Do you know if they knew?_'

'_Who didn't?' _

And that was the truth of it.

That was why everyone in the intelligence community had been sent reeling. There were _children_ there. And even if they'd used children in their fucking games, against all common sense, against every bit of sanity that anyone in the entire world should have had, surely everyone knew that _throwing missiles at children_ was not the way to go.

But they'd done it anyway.

It was the Middle East all over again. Only this time there wouldn't be any hiding behind accusations of religious wars or weapons of mass destruction. There wouldn't be any possibility of claiming some dictator had taken over everything and posed a threat. They'd thrown a missile at a _school_. Operated by an organisation that had, somehow, magically, mysteriously, managed to hide every last shady dealing they ever did and produce paperwork legalising every other moment in their history.

It was impressive.

It was terrifying.

If it was a sign of things to come, she didn't envy the ones who hadn't had the good sense to throw their hands up into the air and _get the fuck out_.

Orion. The Hunter. Had there ever been a more appropriate name?

Her phone buzzed one last time: '_We won't forget what you did. Even when no one finds out_.'

A promise, a threat, an acknowledgement. All in one. Tulip Jones stood up and stared at her face in the mirror. She'd been avoiding that a lot recently, trying to work out if she could live with herself. Trying to work out if she could live with the fact that she'd been so blind for so long.

She still hadn't managed to meet her own eyes.

Guilt, shame, twisted divided loyalties. She knew that there would be some who said it was proof that women shouldn't work for intelligence agencies. That she lacked _the guts_ to make the hard calls. She knew they were wrong. She wondered how long it would take them to find that out. That sometimes the hard calls didn't mean screwing over everyone else. That a hard call could be taking a stand against something that was wrong.

No matter the cost to yourself.

She reached for her phone: '_Paris. Saturday. I won't run._'

Orion texted back: '_You have no reason to hide.'_

And, not for the first time since she heard that the Director of the CIA had suicided by stupidity, she wondered if she could make amends for the sins that she had failed to see.

Whenever someone launches a ballistic missile without taking adequate preparations to warn their enemies, the world takes a deep breath and everything seems to stop for one dark moment as bells begin to toll on the doomsday clock.

The President had not bothered to warn their enemies.

A report had been placed in front of him. The new Director of the CIA had found the individual responsible for the single most chilling political assassination ever carried out on US soil. The ghost that had vanished into the mists, leaving only his admissions that he knew enough secrets to topple the country.

A general had confirmed that it was a momentary, fleeting chance to strike at what he agreed was one of the largest threats to liberty in the world. The Secretary of Defence had sworn to his face that this was the best chance that they would ever have. Everyone had stood there and told him it was the right thing to do. And that was their job: to tell him what needed to be done to protect America.

So he'd pressed the button, then stood up to read a script written by some aide serving some secretary in some military office that got to write the scripts that start the wars.

In the depths of the ocean, a submarine got it's command and slowly rose to the surface, and moments later alerts on computers in every sovereign state started drawing attention to themselves. Commanders in underground bunkers sat at desks with big buttons, surrounded by computer screens feeding them information on how long they had to make a final decision.

Sometimes those decisions are instant. A matter of seconds.

That's what they all practiced. Making those snapshot decisions.

This week America had been lucky.

Even Pakistan, the closest nuclear power with concerns about American over-extension to Seychelles, had a whole 120 seconds to decide whether the missile was pointed at Istanbul, or whether the Americans were actually stupid enough to bomb a nothing island stranded on the eastern edge of the Somali Sea.

China got three minutes. Russia, four. Long enough for seasoned generals to take that deep, stabilising breath and decide that today wasn't the day that the world ended.

But it was close.

And now the President was in the awkward position of knowing they'd missed. Of knowing they'd lied. Of knowing that every fuck up you could make was made in his name, with his authority, by his military that he commanded.

He'd written his own letter of resignation, then scrapped it before anyone saw. His mistake, his responsibility, his chance to fix it.

It had been pieced together afterwards, by which time it was too late to do anything about it. The new Director, knowing the sins of his predecessor, desperately trying to cover them up. The general, knowing what would happen if - when - it came out that he had trained a child soldier.

The Secretary of Defense, seeing a chance to eliminate a threat. Compromised, the FBI had told him. Compromised by a Russian agent still not yet eighteen. Four years ago.

He could do the maths. He knew what that meant.

It made him sick.

So did knowing that the building they'd intended to hit was a school. Not a conventional one, but a school nonetheless. Housing citizens of their allies and their friends. Citizens who were their darkest secret, but citizens nonetheless.

The phone rang.

It wasn't supposed to, because his secretary was screening his calls. But it rang anyway, so he picked up. "Who is this?"

"My name is Orion. I understand you've been looking for me."

_Fuck_.

There was silence on the line. The President didn't know what to say.

"You missed." The voice was almost accentless, but the President thought he caught a hint of British. Didn't that make a load of sense? They'd acted on British intelligence, and of course they'd fucking missed. "Let me tell you what's going to happen."

"I'm the President. That's supposed to be my line."

"Very funny." Orion didn't sound amused. "But we both know you've ballsed up, and unless you're stupid enough to launch some more missiles at us whilst the entire Indian navy is parked around my island, you don't have much choice."

He had a point.

"Sometime this week, your world is going to start falling to pieces. You're going to find that interviewers know things that they shouldn't. That your political allies start to whisper about secrets that you thought were buried. Ambassadors start being recalled and sent home. Military bases closed." The President's eyes closed. "And then, if you are honest, completely and truly honest, you will miraculously be kept in power. You will survive this. You won't win the next election, but for the next three years you will have a chance to make amends. To draw lines in the sand and stop this from happening again. To balance the ledgers."

"What about the others?" He was almost whispering now, "What will happen to them?"

"How did you phrase it?" Orion paused. "Ah yes - their crimes will not go unpunished."

The President's voice choked, just slightly, fear breaking through endless years of practice. "And if I can't make things right?"

"I would suggest you look up Alan Blunt."

The line went dead, and the President let his head sink into his hands. Three years. He didn't even know where to start. Three years of transparency, honesty and trying to balance the scales of justice. What would that even _do_ to the country?

He pulled a pen from his pocket and stared down at the blank sheets of paper on his desk. There for him to write his thoughts onto.

Two hours later, it was still blank.

Troy had a new life. It wasn't much of one, trapped in a witness protection scheme, but it was a new life. Free of the burdens of his old one.

He'd been vanished and he knew it, and he was okay with that. With being hidden. Limping around a safehouse with his crutches waiting for a chance to regain some normality. Maybe he could take some tests. Get to a college in time. Graduate. Work on something important.

He'd been thinking about it when the news broke.

When his President went on TV and called down fire on his saviour.

And that wasn't good.

The camera had arrived in the post the next day. He hadn't ordered it. There wasn't any note in the box. Did there need to be?

He'd thought about it for a long time. It could be a good life. A normal life. College could be fun.

Or it could be a life that meant something.

He hit upload.

"My name is Troy. When I was 13, I was forced to participate in black ops run by the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States. My life was saved by Orion. He gave me a route out. He saved my life."

On the screen, his face, still scarred, looked tired, scared. Defiant.

"This is my story."


End file.
